


The Business of Sadness

by Godtiss



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Godtiss/pseuds/Godtiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You've got a bloody time machine. Save him!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Business of Sadness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a request over on Tumblr. Title taken from Brackett, WI by Bon Iver.

Red. All you can see is red.

The feeling of something cold brushes against your forehead, passing from one temple to the other. You flinch as rivulets of water disappear into your hairline, others collecting to form shallow pools above your cheekbones before trickling off towards your ears. You close his eyes instinctively, dragging in a startled breath.

“Easy,” comes a voice hovering somewhere above you. Your eyes open, blinking away the red film to stare up at the face above you.

“Doctor,” you say, except it comes out more as a hoarse groan than an actual word. He seems to understand. He gives a small smile.

“We’re back in the TARDIS,” he says. “Hold still, let me get this mess off you.”

The cool dampness returns as he gently wipes your face with a cloth. It comes away stained red, but he’s quick to hide it somewhere out of your line of vision, retrieving another from next to where he’s kneeling beside you. His brow furrows, lips pressing into a firm line.

There’s someone missing. You can feel it – it’s as prominent as missing an arm or a leg, and you cast your unfocused gaze around what you can see of the console room.

“Where’s-?”

The Doctor pauses in his ministrations, glancing over his shoulder sharply. But when he turns back his smile is easy and carefree, even if it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Sent him to the medbay to get a few things. He’ll be back in a minute, I’m sure. Just hang on.”

You’re tired. You press your cheek to the cold floor and say so.

“No, don’t go to sleep. You have to stay awake.”

You look up and catch the tail end of panic leaving his face. Just that split second tells you more than you wanted to know, and you can still see it in his eyes. 

There’s a dull pounding in the back of your head, like something beating against the inner lining of your skull. It sets your teeth on edge, but it serves as a temporary distraction from the numbness that is spreading through your limbs.

Footsteps. Another face comes into view above you, pale and dirty and streaked with red though there’s no visible wounds. That’s good, you think. The newcomer drops down beside the Doctor, releasing an armful of objects ranging from syringes to things you can’t even begin to identify. They clatter to the ground noisily, and you flinch again.

“I’m sorry – I didn’t know what to get,” he says, attempting to sift through the objects until the Doctor stops him by shoving a piece of cloth in his hand.

“Just get the blood off,” he murmurs, so quietly that you almost miss it. The other man nods, jaw flexing as he turns his gaze to you, offering a tiny smile.

He begins to clean your face as the Doctor rummages from the supplies brought. You want to ask why it’s necessary – it’s just a scratch, after all. It hardly hurts. 

Something tells you to keep quiet. That maybe it’s best you leave them to it. Besides, you’re almost too tired to think straight, and you doubt your words would come out right anyway.

“How do you feel?”

You look up at the face that has replaced the Doctor’s. He’s looking down at you and doing a much poorer job at hiding his emotions than the Time Lord. You can see the telltale flickers of panic barely concealed behind his perpetual mask of gentle concern.

“Fine,” you lie. The pounding in your head has gotten worse. You can’t feel your left leg at all save for a dull throbbing, and your right feels like it’s gone to sleep. Same with your arms. And there’s a niggling pain in your chest, suspiciously close to your heart.

_I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one._

He can tell you’re lying, too. He presses his lips together into a tight smile.

“Where does it hurt?”

 _Everywhere_ , you want to say. “My chest.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Surprisingly, you don’t. Usually your memory is flawless, completely accurate in every way, never failing you. 

You don’t have to say anything. The frown you produce is enough for him.

“Doctor?” he asks, turning slightly towards the other man. “What do we do?”

He sounds so lost. You’ve never known him to be anything other than your stable footing, your solid ground. 

Your vision flickers black for a moment. When you manage to focus again, both of them are hovering over you. One looks helpless, and frustrated by the fact. The other looks nothing but regretful.

“I’m so sorry,” the Doctor whispers. “I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

“Doctor, what do we do!?”

In all the time you’ve known him, you’ve only ever seen the Doctor look his age once, when he was forced to watch the execution of woman he could not save. You remember the way he looked, standing there, watching as the flames began to climb closer.

He’s looking at you the same way he looked at that woman.

“Doctor!”

He averts his eyes, casting his heavy gaze down towards his blood-stained hands. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “It’s my fault.”

Your other companion isn’t having any of it, though. “You can beat yourself up about it later, Doctor, but now isn’t the time. Help me. _Please_ , help me.”

His voice breaks on the last syllable. He begins frantically pawing through the various medical supplies he brought, throwing aside heating pads and things that look like small blue fishhooks. 

“There has to be something.”

The Doctor doesn’t move though, and the other man lets out a growl. You’re left lying on the cool floor of the TARDIS, breath getting shallower as the pain in your chest intensifies. Your vision goes black again, and it stays that way for longer than is comfortable.

“-got to stay with me. You’re going to be fine, okay?”

You want to nod, but you’ve never felt comfortable lying to him.

“Funny,” you manage to get out between clenched teeth. The hammering in your head is making it impossible to focus, and now your leg has decided to make itself known to you by sending jolts of electric agony through your bones. 

“What’s funny?” he asks, ignoring the Doctor completely in favor of letting you know with a look just how _not funny_ he thinks the entire situation is.

“Surrounded by my two doctors,” you say, allowing a small smile to find its way to your lips.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says with a forceful look, like he dares you to defy him. “Doctor, enough with the pity party. I need your help.”

The Time Lord looks up at that, eyes reflecting nine hundred years of grief and regret. 

“There’s nothing.”

“There’s always something. You’ve got a bloody time machine. _Save him_!”

“There’s nothing we can do and I’m so, so sorry for that. I should have been faster. I should have known. I should have saved him when I had the chance.”

“Doctor,” he growls, and he opens his mouth to say more.

“John.”

His mouth snaps shut and he looks down at you. You manage to lift one arm up to fist your hand in the sleeve of his shirt.

“Don’t tell me it’s alright, Sherlock,” he threatens.

You shake your head, wincing as the pounding grows ten-fold. 

“I would never lie to you, John.”

You manage to meet the Doctor’s weary gaze. He gives you a quivering half-smile that’s more the shadow of a frown than anything.

“Don’t blame yourself,” you say, though you know it won’t do a lick of good for the man who has seen more death than you could possibly comprehend. But you say it anyway, because you’re not cruel.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

You look up at John – his panic clear on his face. It’s all so sudden. You don’t even know what happened. 

“John.”

He presses his lips together, shakes his head. Your hand is still grasping his sleeve. 

“John.”

His eyes meet yours. Bitter. Confused. Terrified beyond belief. 

“It’s not okay,” you say. You tighten your grip briefly. “But it will be. Eventually.”


End file.
